I'm not the greatest mathematician. If you've ever watched me try to calculate a tip or figure out how much longer a movie lasts, you'll soon realize that I'm basically functionally retarded when it comes to numbers.
I've had to do some calculatin' at work recently. In my last bit of mathmagic, I submitted an invoice requesting an order of 200,000 cards at $27.88 per thousand for a total of $5,576. Pay attention, this will be on the test.
As with many things work-related, this required dozens of signatures and different offices and forms and letters and holy crap I just fell asleep reliving all those forms I had to fill out.
About a week after I turned all this in I get a call from someone in City Hall. The numbers weren't right, which wasn't really surprising. She talked me through it and pointed out that the order I submitted actually came to $55,760, a sum that would never, ever, ever get approved.
I hung up and looked at my forms (always keep a copy!). I dunno, it looks like my numbers were right. 200,00 cards, $27.88 per thousand...that should come up to $5,576, right? Then again, just because I came up with the same answer twice doesn't really mean anything, so I asked some smart people and they came up with the same answer. So when City Hall called back this morning, I laid out my case.
It did not go well. Like a beloved comedy routine, we kept getting stuck in a loop, which I'll recreate for your pleasure:
City Hall: "So if you order 200,000, that would be $55,760."
Me: "Right. But they're $27.88 per thousand. So you would multiply that by 200, right?"
CH: "OK. $27.88 times 200,000"
Me: "No. $27.88 will buy me 1000. To get 200,000, I would have to buy that 200 times."
CH: "So multiply $27.88 by 200,000."
Me: "No. Say I go into a store. I've got enough money to buy a thousand of these. But I want 200,00. So I'd multiply that by 200, right?"
After about 10 minutes of this, she hung up and said she'd call me back. While I was waiting for her call, I began to question my math. She was probably right. I mean, she works with numbers every day, and if I could do math, I'd probably have a different job. Why am I pestering that poor woman? Then she called back and said, "OK, so my math skills have disappeared." Then we worked through the requisition process like a team, which was nice, since she said I was driving her to drink on our first call.
I don't mean to make fun of City Hall lady, since anyone can have a brain slip-up or get so sure of something that we fail to see the facts. Hell, I do both constantly. But if you're ever in a situation where my math skills are what saves the day, that is a situation you do not want to be in.
Showing posts with label weird. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weird. Show all posts
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Friday, June 6, 2014
Poison Arrow
The opening day of Mowing Season is always bittersweet. Sweet, because after my lawn looks nice, I am free to judge my neighbors' shabby landscaping skills; bitter because I have to actually do work before getting down to the judging.
This year, as I was mowing around the flowers on opening day, I found an arrow. Yeah, an actual arrow, as in bow and arrow. I immediately blamed my shitty neighbors across the street, but their arrows were usually sonic. A few minutes later I found another one hidden in the grass. It didn't look like anything on the porch had been punctured, but it's not everyday that you find a quiver of arrows on your front lawn, so I was a little concerned.
I knew that there hadn't been any Indian attacks here in at least a hundred years, and even if the warpath had heated up, why start with me? Why not hit the sheriff or the ... stagecoach manager or something? I'm just an innocent homesteader, trying to scrape out a living here on my property.
Of course, they might not be recent arrows. They might be mystical revenge arrows launched from an ancient burial ground that was razed to build my house. That would explain quite a bit, actually, like why I've had to replace my TV 3 or 4 times, or why that faucet drips blood occasionally.
Using knowledge of the ancients, I submitted the arrows to a lengthy and intense cleansing ceremony, sort of like the one Billy Jack had to endure before kicking the crap out of those rednecks.
And hey, as an aside, ever notice how many southerners will claim some microscopic amount of Native American blood to make some tenuous claim of...well, I'm not sure exactly. Like, "Well, I'm actually 1/32 Cherokee," or "There's some Creek blood on my mother's side." Who do they think is buying that stuff?
Actually, I just left the arrows on the back porch and sort of forgot about them.
Last week I put the haunted arrows in a bag of yard trash. You could see the tips of them poking out of the bag. I was a little concerned about the garbagemen getting cursed, but figured they probably had to take training on that sort of stuff, what with people regularly throwing out possessed dolls and ouija boards and whatnot.
Yesterday when taking in the recycling bin, I noticed something was amiss. The trash bag was still there, but the arrows were gone. Some mystical Native American spirit took them from the Hefty bag and transported them back into the Land of the Dead. That, of course, is the only scientific answer to what could have happened.
With the arrows gone, I'm pretty sure any and all curses on the house have been lifted, but I might have to undergo another purification ceremony just to make sure. Or I might have to embark on an epic quest, like the time I searched for my niece in Comanche territory for five years. But that is a story for another time.
This year, as I was mowing around the flowers on opening day, I found an arrow. Yeah, an actual arrow, as in bow and arrow. I immediately blamed my shitty neighbors across the street, but their arrows were usually sonic. A few minutes later I found another one hidden in the grass. It didn't look like anything on the porch had been punctured, but it's not everyday that you find a quiver of arrows on your front lawn, so I was a little concerned.
I knew that there hadn't been any Indian attacks here in at least a hundred years, and even if the warpath had heated up, why start with me? Why not hit the sheriff or the ... stagecoach manager or something? I'm just an innocent homesteader, trying to scrape out a living here on my property.
Of course, they might not be recent arrows. They might be mystical revenge arrows launched from an ancient burial ground that was razed to build my house. That would explain quite a bit, actually, like why I've had to replace my TV 3 or 4 times, or why that faucet drips blood occasionally.
 |
| The cursed arrows. Hey, that's an awesome band name! |
And hey, as an aside, ever notice how many southerners will claim some microscopic amount of Native American blood to make some tenuous claim of...well, I'm not sure exactly. Like, "Well, I'm actually 1/32 Cherokee," or "There's some Creek blood on my mother's side." Who do they think is buying that stuff?
Actually, I just left the arrows on the back porch and sort of forgot about them.
Last week I put the haunted arrows in a bag of yard trash. You could see the tips of them poking out of the bag. I was a little concerned about the garbagemen getting cursed, but figured they probably had to take training on that sort of stuff, what with people regularly throwing out possessed dolls and ouija boards and whatnot.
Yesterday when taking in the recycling bin, I noticed something was amiss. The trash bag was still there, but the arrows were gone. Some mystical Native American spirit took them from the Hefty bag and transported them back into the Land of the Dead. That, of course, is the only scientific answer to what could have happened.
With the arrows gone, I'm pretty sure any and all curses on the house have been lifted, but I might have to undergo another purification ceremony just to make sure. Or I might have to embark on an epic quest, like the time I searched for my niece in Comanche territory for five years. But that is a story for another time.
 |
| The view from my porch |
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Casual Racism Fridays
A few weeks ago I'm at a training session at work. I'm waiting in line to sign the roster to get the all-important training credit (9 hours more to go!) and I'm talking to a co-worker who is behind me in line. I get distracted, probably looking inside to see if there would be cookies and somehow she snaked my place in line.
"Hey, how'd you get in front of me?"
"I'm crafty like that," she replied.
Without missing a beat, or even looking up, the woman manning the roster said, "All Chinese are crafty."
Now, ignoring the fact that the coworker I was talking to is blonde and blue-eyed, sort of the anti-Chinese, what does that even mean? Was she referring to the Coca-Cola thing? Because that has been thoroughly discredited. I mean, I'm sure at one point in history a Chinese person put some "pee-pee" in a Coke for humorous effect, but the vast majority of Chinese people frown on such hijinks and do not find urine in soft drinks to be funny at all.
But I don't think she was referring to that. I don't even know if she was referring to anything in particular. Maybe it's like that word association game, and "Chinese" is paired up with "crafty" in her mind. Or maybe she just has to tell the world her opinion about Chinese people for whatever reason.
I'd say that it bothered me all through the training session, but if I'm being honest, I was really more upset that we didn't get cookies.
Now, of course, I think I'm going to try to test her. Next time she's around, I'll mention specific countries and see if I get a response. I'll be sure to report back.
"Hey, how'd you get in front of me?"
"I'm crafty like that," she replied.
Without missing a beat, or even looking up, the woman manning the roster said, "All Chinese are crafty."
Now, ignoring the fact that the coworker I was talking to is blonde and blue-eyed, sort of the anti-Chinese, what does that even mean? Was she referring to the Coca-Cola thing? Because that has been thoroughly discredited. I mean, I'm sure at one point in history a Chinese person put some "pee-pee" in a Coke for humorous effect, but the vast majority of Chinese people frown on such hijinks and do not find urine in soft drinks to be funny at all.
But I don't think she was referring to that. I don't even know if she was referring to anything in particular. Maybe it's like that word association game, and "Chinese" is paired up with "crafty" in her mind. Or maybe she just has to tell the world her opinion about Chinese people for whatever reason.
I'd say that it bothered me all through the training session, but if I'm being honest, I was really more upset that we didn't get cookies.
Now, of course, I think I'm going to try to test her. Next time she's around, I'll mention specific countries and see if I get a response. I'll be sure to report back.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Stories I Like, Yet Am Not Entirely Convinced They Are True, Part One
Years ago one of my ex-wife's friends told us a story about how her and her brother would cause all sorts of trouble for their parents growing up. Not even photographs were safe from hijinx.
"Our parents wanted a family photo. Before they took the pictures, we went to the kitchen and each got a plum. When they got the pictures developed, we were both holding a plum at waist level and laughing."
The parents made the mistake of mentioning something about the sneaky fruit in the photos, which inspired the kids to take as many plum pictures as possible. So there'd be pictures of Christmas morning with the kids slyly holding plums, or photos of the family at the Grand Canyon or whatever holding the fruit and ruining the pictures.
As much as this story cracks me up, especially thinking of these parents getting a pack of pictures back and flipping through each one, saying, "Dammit, why can't we just have ONE normal picture of you two," I do have several areas of concern. First of all, if they were that upset, why would they continue to buy plums? And did the kids just carry plums with them everywhere they went? Wouldn't the parents notice the kids holding plums while taking the pictures? And yes, the storyteller stressed that only plums would work. Not apples, oranges or pears. They had to be plums. Which only makes sense. Plums are much funnier than apples.
Weighing the evidence, I have decreed this story to be Mostly True. I'm thinking there were times other fruit was substituted, or perhaps even photographs when no fruit at all was displayed. This should not stop you from trying this trick on your own, especially with Instagram giving your plum photos a vintage sheen.
Next Episode: My Great-Uncle's War Stories.
"Our parents wanted a family photo. Before they took the pictures, we went to the kitchen and each got a plum. When they got the pictures developed, we were both holding a plum at waist level and laughing."
The parents made the mistake of mentioning something about the sneaky fruit in the photos, which inspired the kids to take as many plum pictures as possible. So there'd be pictures of Christmas morning with the kids slyly holding plums, or photos of the family at the Grand Canyon or whatever holding the fruit and ruining the pictures.
As much as this story cracks me up, especially thinking of these parents getting a pack of pictures back and flipping through each one, saying, "Dammit, why can't we just have ONE normal picture of you two," I do have several areas of concern. First of all, if they were that upset, why would they continue to buy plums? And did the kids just carry plums with them everywhere they went? Wouldn't the parents notice the kids holding plums while taking the pictures? And yes, the storyteller stressed that only plums would work. Not apples, oranges or pears. They had to be plums. Which only makes sense. Plums are much funnier than apples.
Weighing the evidence, I have decreed this story to be Mostly True. I'm thinking there were times other fruit was substituted, or perhaps even photographs when no fruit at all was displayed. This should not stop you from trying this trick on your own, especially with Instagram giving your plum photos a vintage sheen.
Next Episode: My Great-Uncle's War Stories.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Strange Nights with the Girls
If you've followed this foolishness for any length of time you'll recall my belief in the healing power of booze. I wouldn't consider myself a big drinker, but going on a drunk every couple months (when done correctly and monitored by professionals) can be therapeutic - blasting away bad feelings and negativity, and sometimes resulting in the rare negative hangover the next morning - where you feel no ill effects from the alcohol, but instead experience a feeling of peace and cosmic wellness.
Hopefully this will result in breaking down communication barriers, and really, really connecting and feeling something, man. Think of that scene in The Breakfast Club when the kids smoke a doobie and can finally relate to each other. Or if you want to get all highbrow, there's that William Blake quote Hunter Thompson used about a thousand times, "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."
That's a little dramatic, but there is something to be said for getting drunker than a poet on payday with some friends and seeing where the night takes you.
A friend of mine was in town last week. Let's call her Laura. My ex-wife and I have known Laura since college. She was supposed to stay with me Saturday night after seeing a band downtown.
I have a pretty good relationship with my last two exes. It's fairly remarkable and cosmopolitan. I'll get drinks or dinner occasionally with my last long term girlfriend, and visit with my ex-wife about every other weekend at the Riverside Arts Market, catching up on gossip, eating Filipino food and just hanging around. I'd like to think they both still hang with me because I am so damn loveable and charming.
Yeah, that's probably it.
It could be weird at first when I'd run into them, but things have settled into a nice new routine, and I'm legitimately glad to see them and keep in touch, and it seems they like seeing me. Oh. I should mention. My ex-wife is gay, and recently got remarried in New York. To a woman. I get along great with her also. I told you it was all very cosmopolitan.
So that's the backstory. Back to the drinking. After watching the band, my ex-wife, her wife, Laura and I ended up at Birdies (home of the $2.50 mixed drink, if you don't mind Aristocrat gin and a possible paralyzing hangover the next morning), because, well, you pretty much always end up at Birdies when going out in Jacksonville.
I don't think anyone was too drunk, I wasn't eating money or ripping off my shirt yet, but I was comfortable enough to dance in public. And hell, if people didn't want to see me dance then they shouldn't be playing Prince and Cheap Trick. It was fun. I was dancing with a bunch of ladies, doing my patented shaky leg dance (I'll show you sometime ladies, but be warned - you WILL be turned on), and having a blast.
When closing time rudely interrupted the hijinx, Laura was looking for more fun.
"I've got some gin and whiskey at my place," I said. "I think probably some ancient rum and some beer there too."
So it was decided. Actually, here I'm a little unclear. I don't remember if Laura invited my ex-wife and her wife over to my house, but I don't think I would have. No offense to them, but I thought it might be weird, since she hasn't been in the house since she moved her stuff out about three years ago. I mean, like I said, we have a great relationship now, but why mess with stuff, you know?
I didn't have anything to worry about. We put a sizeable dent in my hurricane supplies, everyone was getting along great and laughing and I was DJing. Yes, "Troglodyte" got played. Probably a couple times. I gave everyone the grand tour which was pretty funny since most of what little furniture I have is still in the same place it was three years ago. Hey, I've been busy, alright?
I never thought I'd have my ex-wife and her wife drinking at my house, but everybody was having fun and there was no evident weirdness. After a couple songs, the ex requested a certain song. I was a bit hesitant.
"Dude, you gotta play "Hello, Lucille, Are You a Lesbian."
"Wait, really? Are you sure? I mean, it's not weird or anything now?"
"No, no, just play it."
And I did. As always, novelty funk music and alcohol brought people together. And that's exactly what I was talking about earlier. It was super fun having the ex and her wife (and Laura, too) in my house that night, but if it weren't for the sweet, sweet booze, there's no way I ever would have been suggestible enough to let it happen. Kids, if you're under 21 and want to have this sort of excitement and open communication EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIVES, find a kindly hobo or local priest to buy you some alcohol. Or perhaps steal some from your parents if they have a liquor cabinet. Maybe learn to distill your own wine from simple household ingredients - ask an ex-con for instructions on the best methods.
Trust me, you will thank me later when you're having adventures, exciting, witty conversations and therapeutic breakthroughs.
Hopefully this will result in breaking down communication barriers, and really, really connecting and feeling something, man. Think of that scene in The Breakfast Club when the kids smoke a doobie and can finally relate to each other. Or if you want to get all highbrow, there's that William Blake quote Hunter Thompson used about a thousand times, "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."
That's a little dramatic, but there is something to be said for getting drunker than a poet on payday with some friends and seeing where the night takes you.
A friend of mine was in town last week. Let's call her Laura. My ex-wife and I have known Laura since college. She was supposed to stay with me Saturday night after seeing a band downtown.
I have a pretty good relationship with my last two exes. It's fairly remarkable and cosmopolitan. I'll get drinks or dinner occasionally with my last long term girlfriend, and visit with my ex-wife about every other weekend at the Riverside Arts Market, catching up on gossip, eating Filipino food and just hanging around. I'd like to think they both still hang with me because I am so damn loveable and charming.
Yeah, that's probably it.
It could be weird at first when I'd run into them, but things have settled into a nice new routine, and I'm legitimately glad to see them and keep in touch, and it seems they like seeing me. Oh. I should mention. My ex-wife is gay, and recently got remarried in New York. To a woman. I get along great with her also. I told you it was all very cosmopolitan.
So that's the backstory. Back to the drinking. After watching the band, my ex-wife, her wife, Laura and I ended up at Birdies (home of the $2.50 mixed drink, if you don't mind Aristocrat gin and a possible paralyzing hangover the next morning), because, well, you pretty much always end up at Birdies when going out in Jacksonville.
I don't think anyone was too drunk, I wasn't eating money or ripping off my shirt yet, but I was comfortable enough to dance in public. And hell, if people didn't want to see me dance then they shouldn't be playing Prince and Cheap Trick. It was fun. I was dancing with a bunch of ladies, doing my patented shaky leg dance (I'll show you sometime ladies, but be warned - you WILL be turned on), and having a blast.
 |
| Me with ladies. Note the extended pinky. Classy! |
When closing time rudely interrupted the hijinx, Laura was looking for more fun.
"I've got some gin and whiskey at my place," I said. "I think probably some ancient rum and some beer there too."
So it was decided. Actually, here I'm a little unclear. I don't remember if Laura invited my ex-wife and her wife over to my house, but I don't think I would have. No offense to them, but I thought it might be weird, since she hasn't been in the house since she moved her stuff out about three years ago. I mean, like I said, we have a great relationship now, but why mess with stuff, you know?
I didn't have anything to worry about. We put a sizeable dent in my hurricane supplies, everyone was getting along great and laughing and I was DJing. Yes, "Troglodyte" got played. Probably a couple times. I gave everyone the grand tour which was pretty funny since most of what little furniture I have is still in the same place it was three years ago. Hey, I've been busy, alright?
I never thought I'd have my ex-wife and her wife drinking at my house, but everybody was having fun and there was no evident weirdness. After a couple songs, the ex requested a certain song. I was a bit hesitant.
"Dude, you gotta play "Hello, Lucille, Are You a Lesbian."
"Wait, really? Are you sure? I mean, it's not weird or anything now?"
"No, no, just play it."
And I did. As always, novelty funk music and alcohol brought people together. And that's exactly what I was talking about earlier. It was super fun having the ex and her wife (and Laura, too) in my house that night, but if it weren't for the sweet, sweet booze, there's no way I ever would have been suggestible enough to let it happen. Kids, if you're under 21 and want to have this sort of excitement and open communication EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIVES, find a kindly hobo or local priest to buy you some alcohol. Or perhaps steal some from your parents if they have a liquor cabinet. Maybe learn to distill your own wine from simple household ingredients - ask an ex-con for instructions on the best methods.
Trust me, you will thank me later when you're having adventures, exciting, witty conversations and therapeutic breakthroughs.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Diver Down
I did a google search for googoomuck the other day. Oh, like you've never googled yourself. The first result after a few awesome Youtube clips was an Urban Dictionary definition. Let's see what it says, shall we?
Oh, my.
If you couldn't be bothered to use the link, the definition reads:
"A double entendre meaning a vampire or a muff diver. Famously used in a Cramps songs bearing the same name."
Couple things.
First, I was mildly shocked to see the term "muff diver" all written out there on the internet. Has anyone used that phrase since 1982? In a place that wasn't a middle school cafeteria or schoolbus? I think as soon as you utter the phrase "muff diver" you automatically grow a wispy mustache and notice you're wearing a 3/4 sleeve 95YNF or Lightning Bolt T-shirt.
Hey! That could be my new superhero! A mild-mannered kid in the '80s who uses the secret phrase to become MUFF DIVER, a fighter for justice, Get the Led Out radio weekends and ...I dunno... world peace or something. It still needs work.
Where was I? Oh yeah, "The Goo Goo Muck." I've heard that song for what, over 20 years now and yeah, that reading makes a lot of sense. Let's take a look at some of those lyrics:
"I cruise through the city and I roam the streets
Lookin for something that is nice to eat."
"I'm the night headhunter looking for some head
With a way-out body underneath that head."
How could I have missed that? And the Cramps were covering a song from 1962. Could people really sing about oral sex back then? Didn't they send Lenny Bruce to the electric chair for saying "damn" on stage? How did that song slip by? Was everyone in 1962 was as dumb as me?
Was this phrase common knowledge back then? I'm picturing guys in leather jackets on street corners saying stuff like, "Nah, we didn't really have sex, we just googoomucked." Or "You know me, fellas, I'm a real googoomuck."
Actually, that sounds sort of gross. Nowhere near as pleasing to the ear as "muff diver."
And you know, if I did inadvertently name my blog after a sex act, that's not a bad one to pick. It's a funny term, something I endorse, and it's way better than my first choice, Santorum's Laff Factory.
Oh, just google it.
Oh, my.
If you couldn't be bothered to use the link, the definition reads:
"A double entendre meaning a vampire or a muff diver. Famously used in a Cramps songs bearing the same name."
Couple things.
First, I was mildly shocked to see the term "muff diver" all written out there on the internet. Has anyone used that phrase since 1982? In a place that wasn't a middle school cafeteria or schoolbus? I think as soon as you utter the phrase "muff diver" you automatically grow a wispy mustache and notice you're wearing a 3/4 sleeve 95YNF or Lightning Bolt T-shirt.
Hey! That could be my new superhero! A mild-mannered kid in the '80s who uses the secret phrase to become MUFF DIVER, a fighter for justice, Get the Led Out radio weekends and ...I dunno... world peace or something. It still needs work.
Where was I? Oh yeah, "The Goo Goo Muck." I've heard that song for what, over 20 years now and yeah, that reading makes a lot of sense. Let's take a look at some of those lyrics:
"I cruise through the city and I roam the streets
Lookin for something that is nice to eat."
"I'm the night headhunter looking for some head
With a way-out body underneath that head."
How could I have missed that? And the Cramps were covering a song from 1962. Could people really sing about oral sex back then? Didn't they send Lenny Bruce to the electric chair for saying "damn" on stage? How did that song slip by? Was everyone in 1962 was as dumb as me?
Was this phrase common knowledge back then? I'm picturing guys in leather jackets on street corners saying stuff like, "Nah, we didn't really have sex, we just googoomucked." Or "You know me, fellas, I'm a real googoomuck."
Actually, that sounds sort of gross. Nowhere near as pleasing to the ear as "muff diver."
And you know, if I did inadvertently name my blog after a sex act, that's not a bad one to pick. It's a funny term, something I endorse, and it's way better than my first choice, Santorum's Laff Factory.
Oh, just google it.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Even Jack Chick is Feeling the Recsssion
Because of the rain, I've had to drive to work the past two Saturdays. This always sort of throws me off my game, as my daily bike ride to work depletes my dangerously full reserves of crazy.
On both of these Saturdays I get out of work, ready for some maxin' and relaxin.' As I'm walking to my car I notice something tucked under my windshield wiper.
"Sonofabitch! There's no way I can get a ticket! Weekends are free downtown! That's the one perk city employees still get!"
Oh wait. They weren't tickets after all. Looks like some sort of note. Crap. I'll bet someone hit my car and drove off. Then again, what if somehow Lynda Carter and Debbie Harry left a note telling me how sexy I was and how they were waiting for me at my house? This would require them having access to a time machine, as I'm strictly thinking of both of them circa 1977 or so. I'm not sure where they would get a time machine, but you know, they're famous and everything, and they seem nice enough that they'd want to use this new technology to help out a creepy middle-aged man explore his pre-pubescent fantasies.
Wait, what were we talking about?
Praying always in your Most Holy Faith
Then you open it up and there's a little picture of an American flag/Bible, while explosions light up the words. Not bad. I'm thinking this was inspired by the local 4th of July festivities.
The next week's was on cardboard, and simply has the American flag/Bible with "The Lord" in big ol' script.
While this anonymous artist has a bright, airy style, I feel they still need a little work. I suggest a study of mid-period Jack Chick.
On both of these Saturdays I get out of work, ready for some maxin' and relaxin.' As I'm walking to my car I notice something tucked under my windshield wiper.
"Sonofabitch! There's no way I can get a ticket! Weekends are free downtown! That's the one perk city employees still get!"
Oh wait. They weren't tickets after all. Looks like some sort of note. Crap. I'll bet someone hit my car and drove off. Then again, what if somehow Lynda Carter and Debbie Harry left a note telling me how sexy I was and how they were waiting for me at my house? This would require them having access to a time machine, as I'm strictly thinking of both of them circa 1977 or so. I'm not sure where they would get a time machine, but you know, they're famous and everything, and they seem nice enough that they'd want to use this new technology to help out a creepy middle-aged man explore his pre-pubescent fantasies.
Wait, what were we talking about?
Praying always in your Most Holy Faith
Then you open it up and there's a little picture of an American flag/Bible, while explosions light up the words. Not bad. I'm thinking this was inspired by the local 4th of July festivities.
The next week's was on cardboard, and simply has the American flag/Bible with "The Lord" in big ol' script.
While this anonymous artist has a bright, airy style, I feel they still need a little work. I suggest a study of mid-period Jack Chick.
I Have a Signature Sound
The boss was talking to someone close to my little cubicle.
Boss: "Scotty's around,* right?"
Me: "Yeah, why, were you guys gonna talk about some lady stuff again?"
Boss: "No, I just knew you were there because I could hear your sound."
Me: "My sound?"
Boss: "Yeah, you have this weird sound you make. Sort of a combination between a sigh and a sniff."
Me: "Really? I never noticed."
Boss: "Yeah, you might want to see an allergist about that."
So now I'm the guy who creeps around work sniffing and sighing. I think I'm only days away from being the dude in Office Space who is obsessed with his stapler.
*Again, I have no idea how I got the nickname Scotty at work.
Boss: "Scotty's around,* right?"
Me: "Yeah, why, were you guys gonna talk about some lady stuff again?"
Boss: "No, I just knew you were there because I could hear your sound."
Me: "My sound?"
Boss: "Yeah, you have this weird sound you make. Sort of a combination between a sigh and a sniff."
Me: "Really? I never noticed."
Boss: "Yeah, you might want to see an allergist about that."
So now I'm the guy who creeps around work sniffing and sighing. I think I'm only days away from being the dude in Office Space who is obsessed with his stapler.
*Again, I have no idea how I got the nickname Scotty at work.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Straight as Arrows
Some night back in the late '90s I was walking with my friend Pat back to his apartment after buying a bunch of beer at Gator Beverage to get the evening started. Many nights started like this - drinking beer and listening to records, then heading out to find adventure at the Hardback or at a party or whatever.
We walked behind Checkers, probably discussing the merits of the Effigies or why there was a Surf 2 when there was never a Surf 1, and why didn't someone release Surf 2 on VHS yet, anyway (I told you it was the late '90s)?
At some point during our conversation 2 or 3 big gangsta guys approached us.
"Are you straight?"
This took us by surprise.
"What?"
"Are you straight? Do you like women?"
"Uh...yeah."
"OK."
Question answered, we walked the remaining way to Pat's apartment where I drooled over his record collection and we drank our beer.
Later I wondered what that was all about. No follow-up questions? They just took our word? What would have happened if we said no? Would we have had dates for the evening? If we were gay, couldn't we have just lied? These were all worthy questions, but ones I have never successfully come up with answers to.
We walked behind Checkers, probably discussing the merits of the Effigies or why there was a Surf 2 when there was never a Surf 1, and why didn't someone release Surf 2 on VHS yet, anyway (I told you it was the late '90s)?
At some point during our conversation 2 or 3 big gangsta guys approached us.
"Are you straight?"
This took us by surprise.
"What?"
"Are you straight? Do you like women?"
"Uh...yeah."
"OK."
Question answered, we walked the remaining way to Pat's apartment where I drooled over his record collection and we drank our beer.
Later I wondered what that was all about. No follow-up questions? They just took our word? What would have happened if we said no? Would we have had dates for the evening? If we were gay, couldn't we have just lied? These were all worthy questions, but ones I have never successfully come up with answers to.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Dear Lady in the Black Accord
First off, that red thing a block ago? That was a stop sign. You were supposed to apply the brakes.
Secondly, in America, when making a turn, we generally only use one of the two lanes in the road (i.e., not the one that might contain another car or bicyclist on his way to work). I'd go into how easy it is to make a turn signal in today's modern car, but I've given up on that. The savages have won.
You did look very happy talking on your phone, but did you ever stop to consider the person on the other end? Do they really want to listen to your bullshit at 8:15 in the morning?
"Guess what? I'm driving to work!"
"Daddy's little girl has certainly grown up."
"How's your day going?"
"I dunno. It's 8:15. It hasn't started yet."
However, if I hadn't stopped to yell at you, I might have missed seeing the following things on my way to work:
A black cat wearing a fluorescent pink cast chasing a bird
A fat guy with no shirt on, man boobs out in proud defiance of the laws of both God and man, pushing a dog in a baby cart in the 40 degree weather. He looked a lot like a younger version of this guy:
A woman in a '70s Cadillac singing along to the Eagles with the window open
A woman on the Riverwalk singing over and over again, "Jesus, Lord almighty."
It was like I was in an art film (the kitty with a cast represented my soul), or perhaps you actually did hit me like you wanted to and I was stuck in some sort of weird purgatory until I could absolve my sins.
So actually, thanks for running that stop sign, making a wide turn with no signals and almost hitting me. It started the day off on a surreal note.
Secondly, in America, when making a turn, we generally only use one of the two lanes in the road (i.e., not the one that might contain another car or bicyclist on his way to work). I'd go into how easy it is to make a turn signal in today's modern car, but I've given up on that. The savages have won.
You did look very happy talking on your phone, but did you ever stop to consider the person on the other end? Do they really want to listen to your bullshit at 8:15 in the morning?
"Guess what? I'm driving to work!"
"Daddy's little girl has certainly grown up."
"How's your day going?"
"I dunno. It's 8:15. It hasn't started yet."
However, if I hadn't stopped to yell at you, I might have missed seeing the following things on my way to work:
A black cat wearing a fluorescent pink cast chasing a bird
A fat guy with no shirt on, man boobs out in proud defiance of the laws of both God and man, pushing a dog in a baby cart in the 40 degree weather. He looked a lot like a younger version of this guy:
A woman in a '70s Cadillac singing along to the Eagles with the window open
A woman on the Riverwalk singing over and over again, "Jesus, Lord almighty."
It was like I was in an art film (the kitty with a cast represented my soul), or perhaps you actually did hit me like you wanted to and I was stuck in some sort of weird purgatory until I could absolve my sins.
So actually, thanks for running that stop sign, making a wide turn with no signals and almost hitting me. It started the day off on a surreal note.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tattoo You
Poor people sure love their tattoos. Every third person that comes up to the reference desk looks like a Maori tribesman, if the New Zealand natives were infatuated with Taz, rings of barbed wire and hip-hop lyrics. My favorite used to be the young man with an outline of the state of Florida between his eyebrows, but today I crowned my new King of Tattoos.
Remember when someone was foolish enough to pass out at a party? Remember how funny it was when they woke up the next day with Sharpee-written witticisms and symbols over every inch of exposed skin? Well, I think that happened to this guy. He had all sorts of stuff scrawled on him in fonts that recalled that blocky handwritten style used in advertising to denote kids. You know, like a sign that says Lemonade with the E backwards. I couldn't read all of this guy's etchings, but I was able to preserve his best in this painting I commissioned acourtroom artist to do for the site.
I'm assuming these are the fellow's two favorite types of popular music. I feel this would be a lot more effective if they were on his knuckles or hands, if only for the chance to say, "Do you like country? Or do you like rock?" before punching someone. Another wasted opportunity.
Remember when someone was foolish enough to pass out at a party? Remember how funny it was when they woke up the next day with Sharpee-written witticisms and symbols over every inch of exposed skin? Well, I think that happened to this guy. He had all sorts of stuff scrawled on him in fonts that recalled that blocky handwritten style used in advertising to denote kids. You know, like a sign that says Lemonade with the E backwards. I couldn't read all of this guy's etchings, but I was able to preserve his best in this painting I commissioned acourtroom artist to do for the site.
I'm assuming these are the fellow's two favorite types of popular music. I feel this would be a lot more effective if they were on his knuckles or hands, if only for the chance to say, "Do you like country? Or do you like rock?" before punching someone. Another wasted opportunity.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Overheard While Eating Downtown
One attorney/city worker looking guy in his 40s to another
"What's wrong with you? It's like you don't even care who won American Idol anymore."
"What's wrong with you? It's like you don't even care who won American Idol anymore."
Friday, May 7, 2010
Dream Warrior
Since I realize nothing is more fascinating than other people's dreams, here's one that I had the other morning.
I was teaching this adult education class with Steve Carrell. I recognized a few people in the class. At some point, a pack of rabid dogs run in the classroom. Steve is trying to keep everyone calm while I run for help (I can call him Steve since we taught together). Oh yeah, the classroom was up a ladder for some reason. So I go running around looking for help, but keep getting distracted. I finally make it back with some meat to lure the dogs out of the classroom, but the dogs have left or fallen asleep or something. Everyone still thinks I'm a hero though, because they don't know about how I stopped looking for help and would go off and do something else. At one point my friend Todd comes up and is all serious about how scared he was of the dogs. Then like a second later we start doing our impression of "Little Mad Guy," the kung fu movie where the wispy-haired master says, "Oh Fatty, why can't you catch those snakes? It's so damned easy."
This is what would happen in real life.
So come on, all you internet Freuds, what the hell does that mean?
I was teaching this adult education class with Steve Carrell. I recognized a few people in the class. At some point, a pack of rabid dogs run in the classroom. Steve is trying to keep everyone calm while I run for help (I can call him Steve since we taught together). Oh yeah, the classroom was up a ladder for some reason. So I go running around looking for help, but keep getting distracted. I finally make it back with some meat to lure the dogs out of the classroom, but the dogs have left or fallen asleep or something. Everyone still thinks I'm a hero though, because they don't know about how I stopped looking for help and would go off and do something else. At one point my friend Todd comes up and is all serious about how scared he was of the dogs. Then like a second later we start doing our impression of "Little Mad Guy," the kung fu movie where the wispy-haired master says, "Oh Fatty, why can't you catch those snakes? It's so damned easy."
This is what would happen in real life.
So come on, all you internet Freuds, what the hell does that mean?
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Sociological Test
If you were ever a fan of any sort of non-mainstream music, no matter what it was - techno, punk, black metal, swing, goth, Peruvian folk music - whatever, and you run into someone who was into the same stuff years later, ask them about music.
They'll probably say, "Yeah, I don't listen to that stuff anymore."
Ask them what they listen to now. There is a 95 percent chance the answer is Wilco.
Me, I listen to about the same thing I did when I was a teenager.* Why? Well, check out this picture of DYS:
Look at that little guy with the guitar! Look how much fun he's having!
*Except for around Halloween and Christmas, when I revert back even further.
They'll probably say, "Yeah, I don't listen to that stuff anymore."
Ask them what they listen to now. There is a 95 percent chance the answer is Wilco.
Me, I listen to about the same thing I did when I was a teenager.* Why? Well, check out this picture of DYS:
Look at that little guy with the guitar! Look how much fun he's having!
*Except for around Halloween and Christmas, when I revert back even further.
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